‘Sonya, open that door. NOW.’ I’m moving towards the door to bolt the Chubb when I catch a glimpse of a silver Cortina outside. My adrenalin falls so suddenly I feel as if I might crash to the floor. How I wanted this particular scene to play out: the obsessed, demented, jilted lover who turns up on the doorstep of the object of his crazed fantasies, enacting some beautiful, brutal act. And that, right there, is weird, and I know it.

‘Sonya, I know you’re in there. You can now add “thief” to the list of your spectacular fuck-ups.’

What has happened to all the old certainties – that my dog would love me and only me, that David would remain a cool customer, unknown, and that my father would always at least affect a restrained, polite exterior? I feel as if I have supped of some concoction in the underworld: that night of lying in the tangled sheets has resulted in a falling-through from one realm to another. Oh look how the kitten has morphed into the Cheshire Cat grinning from ear to ear, how Herbie is wearing a Mad Hatter’s hat! And my father? The Queen of Hearts outside, stomping up and down, with no care for decorum.

No point in trying to engage – no point at all. I settle back to watch my father run out of steam through a gap in the blinds, in much the same way he used to watch me as I’d bellow and rant, his motto ‘Never feed the tantrum with attention.’

‘Unacceptable behaviour, Sonya, really, the worst. I brought you up better than that.’ Poor Dad, he really has lost the run of himself. Just as I knew he would, he runs out of steam and strides away down the path, anger in every bunched muscle. I hear someone utter a greeting and his gruff response: ‘Not now, Mary.’ I turn to my two charges, who seem to have come to a truce, Marmie rubbing her delicious little nose against the dumbstruck Herbie’s.

The night is rather lovely, with the two lovebirds staring at each other from opposite sides of the bed. It’s comforting having the warm bodies lying there, not wanting anything at all from me. I fall into a restful sleep, with no visitations from the demented dentist, my childhood dolls, nor any of the sensations of falling or suffocating in shit. When I wake I have the impression of being filled with the colour green: trees, grasshoppers, grass, the colour of buds, of new life.

I move through the morning slowly, strangely luxuriating in the further texts from David: Good morning, Good luck today, Thinking of you. This is so unfamiliar, something I could perhaps get used to. The example set by the animals must be making me soft. I take my time with my cup of tea, cradling it, contemplating the texture, taste, smell. Sister Anne was right: the small pleasures in life really can fill you up. Herbie seems shell-shocked, as anyone would, having been released from prison into a warm, scented bed with a gorgeous feline companion.